The Inn of Tranquillity: Studies and Essays, by John Galsworthy

Meditation On Finality

In the Grand Canyon of Arizona, that most exhilarating of all natural phenomena, Nature has for once
so focussed her effects, that the result is a framed and final work of Art. For there, between two high lines of
plateau, level as the sea, are sunk the wrought thrones of the innumerable gods, couchant, and for ever revering, in
their million moods of light and colour, the Master Mystery.

Having seen this culmination, I realize why many people either recoil before it, and take the first train home, or
speak of it as a “remarkable formation.” For, though mankind at large craves finality, it does not crave the sort that
bends the knee to Mystery. In Nature, in Religion, in Art, in Life, the common cry is: “Tell me precisely where I am,
what doing, and where going! Let me be free of this fearful untidiness of not knowing all about it!” The favoured
religions are always those whose message is most finite. The fashionable professions — they that end us in assured
positions. The most popular works of fiction, such as leave nothing to our imagination. And to this craving after
prose, who would not be lenient, that has at all known life, with its usual predominance of our lower and less
courageous selves, our constant hankering after the cosey closed door and line of least resistance? We are continually
begging to be allowed to know for certain; though, if our prayer were granted, and Mystery no longer hovered, made blue
the hills, and turned day into night, we should, as surely, wail at once to be delivered of that ghastliness of knowing
things for certain!

Now, in Art, I would never quarrel with a certain living writer who demands of it the kind of finality implied in
what he calls a “moral discovery”— using, no doubt, the words in their widest sense. I would maintain, however, that
such finality is not confined to positively discovering the true conclusion of premises laid down; but that it may also
distil gradually, negatively from the whole work, in a moral discovery, as it were, of Author. In other words, that,
permeation by an essential point of view, by emanation of author, may so unify and vitalize a work, as to give it all
the finality that need be required of Art. For the finality that is requisite to Art, be it positive or negative, is
not the finality of dogma, nor the finality of fact, it is ever the finality of feeling — of a spiritual light, subtly
gleaned by the spectator out of that queer luminous haze which one man’s nature must ever be to others. And herein,
incidentally, it is that Art acquires also that quality of mystery, more needful to it even than finality, for the
mystery that wraps a work of Art is the mystery of its maker, and the mystery of its maker is the difference between
that maker’s soul and every other soul.

But let me take an illustration of what I mean by these two kinds of finality that Art may have, and show that in
essence they are but two halves of the same thing. The term “a work of Art” will not be denied, I think, to that early
novel of M. Anatole France, “Le Lys Rouge.” Now, that novel has positive finality, since the spiritual conclusion from
its premises strikes one as true. But neither will the term “a work of Art” be denied to the same writer’s four
“Bergeret” volumes, whose negative finality consists only in the temperamental atmosphere wherein they are soaked. Now,
if the theme of “Le Lys Rouge” had been treated by Tolstoy, Meredith, or Turgenev, we should have had spiritual
conclusions from the same factual premises so different from M. France’s as prunes from prisms, and yet, being the work
of equally great artists, they would, doubtless, have struck us as equally true. Is not, then, the positive finality of
“Le Lys Rouge,” though expressed in terms of a different craftsmanship, the same, in essence, as the negative finality
of the “Bergeret” volumes? Are not both, in fact, merely flower of author true to himself? So long as the scent,
colour, form of that flower is strong and fine enough to affect the senses of our spirit, then all the rest, surely, is
academic — I would say, immaterial.

But here, in regard to Art, is where mankind at large comes on the field. “‘Flower of author,’” it says, “‘Senses of
the spirit!’ Phew! Give me something I can understand! Let me know where I am getting to!” In a word, it wants a
finality different from that which Art can give. It will ask the artist, with irritation, what his solution, or his
lesson, or his meaning, really is, having omitted to notice that the poor creature has been giving all the meaning that
he can, in every sentence. It will demand to know why it was not told definitely what became of Charles or Mary in whom
it had grown so interested; and will be almost frightened to learn that the artist knows no more than itself. And if by
any chance it be required to dip its mind into a philosophy that does not promise it a defined position both in this
world and the next, it will assuredly recoil, and with a certain contempt say: “No, sir! This means nothing to me; and
if it means anything to you — which I very much doubt — I am sorry for you!”

It must have facts, and again facts, not only in the present and the past, but in the future. And it demands facts
of that, which alone cannot glibly give it facts. It goes on asking facts of Art, or, rather, such facts as Art cannot
give — for, after all, even “flower of author” is fact in a sort of way.

Consider, for instance, Synge’s masterpiece, “The Playboy of the Western World!” There is flower of author! What is
it for mankind at large? An attack on the Irish character! A pretty piece of writing! An amusing farce! Enigmatic
cynicism leading nowhere! A puzzling fellow wrote it! Mankind at large has little patience with puzzling fellows.

Few, in fact, want flower of author. Moreover, it is a quality that may well be looked for where it does not exist.
To say that the finality which Art requires is merely an enwrapping mood, or flower of author, is not by any means to
say that any robust fellow, slamming his notions down in ink, can give us these. Indeed, no! So long as we see the
author’s proper person in his work, we do not see the flower of him. Let him retreat himself, if he pretend to be an
artist. There is no less of subtle skill, no less impersonality, in the “Bergeret” volumes than in “Le Lys Rouge.” No
less labour and mental torturing went to their making, page by page, in order that they might exhale their perfume of
mysterious finality, their withdrawn but implicit judgment. Flower of author is not quite so common as the buttercup,
the Californian poppy, or the gay Texan gaillardia, and for that very reason the finality it gives off will never be
robust enough for a mankind at large that would have things cut and dried, and labelled in thick letters. For, consider
— to take one phase alone of this demand for factual finality — how continual and insistent is the cry for characters
that can be worshipped; how intense and persistent the desire to be told that Charles was a real hero; and how bitter
the regret that Mary was no better than she should be! Mankind at large wants heroes that are heroes, and heroines that
are heroines — and nothing so inappropriate to them as unhappy endings.

Travelling away, I remember, from that Grand Canyon of Arizona were a young man and a young woman, evidently in
love. He was sitting very close to her, and reading aloud for her pleasure, from a paper-covered novel, heroically
oblivious of us all:

“‘Sir Robert,’ she murmured, lifting her beauteous eyes, ‘I may not tempt you, for you are too dear to me!’ Sir
Robert held her lovely face between his two strong hands. ‘Farewell!’ he said, and went out into the night. But
something told them both that, when he had fulfilled his duty, Sir Robert would return . . . .” He had not
returned before we reached the Junction, but there was finality about that baronet, and we well knew that he ultimately
would. And, long after the sound of that young man’s faithful reading had died out of our ears, we meditated on Sir
Robert, and compared him with the famous characters of fiction, slowly perceiving that they were none of them so final
in their heroism as he. No, none of them reached that apex. For Hamlet was a most unfinished fellow, and Lear extremely
violent. Pickwick addicted to punch, and Sam Weller to lying; Bazarof actually a Nihilist, and Irina ——! Levin and
Anna, Pierre and Natasha, all of them stormy and unsatisfactory at times. “Un Coeur Simple” nothing but a servant, and
an old maid at that; “Saint Julien l’Hospitalier” a sheer fanatic. Colonel Newcome too irritable and too simple
altogether. Don Quixote certified insane. Hilda Wangel, Nora, Hedda — Sir Robert would never even have spoken to such
baggages! Mon sieur Bergeret — an amiable weak thing! D’Artagnan — a true swashbuckler! Tom Jones, Faust, Don Juan — we
might not even think of them: And those poor Greeks: Prometheus — shocking rebel. OEdipus for a long time banished by
the Censor. Phaedra and Elektra, not even so virtuous as Mary, who failed of being what she should be! And coming to
more familiar persons Joseph and Moses, David and Elijah, all of them lacked his finality of true heroism — none could
quite pass muster beside Sir Robert . . . . Long we meditated, and, reflecting that an author must ever be
superior to the creatures of his brain, were refreshed to think that there were so many living authors capable of
giving birth to Sir Robert; for indeed, Sir Robert and finality like his — no doubtful heroes, no flower of author, and
no mystery is what mankind at large has always wanted from Letters, and will always want.

As truly as that oil and water do not mix, there are two kinds of men. The main cleavage in the whole tale of life
is this subtle, all pervading division of mankind into the man of facts and the man of feeling. And not by what they
are or do can they be told one from the other, but just by their attitude toward finality. Fortunately most of us are
neither quite the one nor quite the other. But between the pure-blooded of each kind there is real antipathy, far
deeper than the antipathies of race, politics, or religion — an antipathy that not circumstance, love, goodwill, or
necessity will ever quite get rid of. Sooner shall the panther agree with the bull than that other one with the man of
facts. There is no bridging the gorge that divides these worlds.

Nor is it so easy to tell, of each, to which world he belongs, as it was to place the lady, who held out her finger
over that gorge called Grand Canyon, and said: